Fairy lights
by DeAnna Collins
Summary: "And I don't care about the fairy lights that shine all over the city. I'd rather have Christmas like last year with heads in the fridge and you insulting everyone I love." Post-Reichenbach Christmas ficlet, 1st chapter John's POV, 2nd Sherlock's. Inspired by the amazing fan-song "Fairy lights" by badwolfonbakerstreet on Tumblr. Song mentioned by SH: I dreamed a dream (Les Mis)
1. London

"Merry Christmas," I say, trying to sound sincere, but it comes out sounding lifeless and machine-like. Sarah doesn't seem to mind it, she smiles at me warmly, wishing me happy holidays, and all I want is to scream that I don't want holidays, happy or otherwise, mostly because the "otherwise" option is the only one available anyway. Silently, I wait for her to close up the surgery, and when she finally climbs into the taxi I hailed for her, I wave goodbye at her, feeling the fake half-smile gradually melting off my face as she gets farther. I'm already sick and tired of this Christmas, and it hasn't even started yet, it's early afternoon on the 24th of December.

This time last year, I was busy doing the last minute shopping for the Christmas get-together Sherlock and I organized, then spent the evening with friends, exchanging presents until Sherlock sort of ruined that too. Okay, I admit, last year's wasn't the most perfect Christmas either, but it was still better than this emptiness: Now the only thing I can look forward to is the Doctor Who Christmas Special, and even for that I have to wait another day. I couldn't bring myself to put up any decorations either, except the Santa hat on the skull, that poor bugger just looks happier with the hat on it, and I could use at least some resemblance of happiness.

Hands in my pockets and heads in the clouds, I set off towards Baker Street on foot. It's cold, and I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I walk, trying to ignore the festive lighting all over the city. Fairy lights, Sherlock called them, and I laughed at him for being the sentimental one for once. How I wish I could go back to that day, to have a Christmas like last year's, but I know I can't. A soft snowflake lands on the tip of my nose, and I stare at it cross-eyed until it melts, leaving a wet patch on my skin.

I tried to rebuild my life, I really did, but I feel it crumble and fall every time I have to spend even a moment alone, without someone keeping me company or something to keep myself busy. I'm so tired of starting again, but somehow it feels like I owe it to someone. To someone who I am fairly certain doesn't care about a thing anymore, because dead people rarely do that. I can't help but let a soft sigh escape, and if it sounds miraculously like "Sherlock, I miss you", well, it's no one's business but mine.

Barely a minute later I'm standing in front of 221. It once meant home, now it's just another place I used to love. As I open the door, I notice an envelope in the letter box. It's small enough to fit on the palm of my hand, and it has my name on it, in a handwriting that makes my heart race. I hurry upstairs as quickly I can, hoping that this isn't just some kind of joke, and with trembling hands I open the envelope, careful not to damage it. There's a note inside, just three words.

"_Merry Christmas!_

_SH"_


	2. Budapest

It's Christmas Eve, I realize as I stare at the small screen of the mobile I'm currently using. After a while, all the dingy hotel rooms or dusty flats used as safe houses look and feel the same, more than once I have lost count of the city or even the country I was in. Today, it's Hungary, Budapest, to be exact, not that it makes a difference to the fact that I'm all by myself, and terribly bored. Hunting down the remainders of Moriarty's network requires a lot of legwork but poses a lot less of intellectual problems than I thought it would. Well, there's always something...

With a sigh I let the small mobile fall onto the floor. It's a cheap, actually rather stupid device, but I'm only using it for a few more days, tops, so caring for it makes no sense. In fact, I feel bored enough to start taking it apart and putting it back together, but then decide against it, and try to focus on my surroundings. The next door neighbour – one of the two young women who look at me like I'm God's second coming every time they see me -, is listening to the same song for exactly the ninety-third time since she arrived home approximately four hours ago. It actually stopped being annoying sometime after the fortieth repeat. Judging by the song, it's probably the younger girl, the one who just turned 24 a couple of weeks ago and who keeps complaining about a tall, pale English alien not noticing her – not that she does that complaining to me, but the walls are thin, and she's rather loud, especially when she's stressed. That's what my life has become, listening to young girls moaning about their nonexistent love lives by day, and disassembling crime networks by night.

Concentrating on the music – it has to be from some kind of a musical, I guess, and the more I listen to it, the more I enjoy it. A strong, musically rather uneducated, but still enjoyable woman's voice is singing about how hopeless her life is, and I'm shocked to realize that a few lines of the lyrics describe my situation perfectly. A few more repeats, and I find myself mouthing those lines mutely: "I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living". This is what happens when I'm left without cases to exercise my brain with, I start cluttering my hard drive with hardly necessary information, like random lyrics.

I think of my life, the one I was forced to leave behind: My city, my cases, my flat, and that wonderful human being in it. I wonder how John's doing. I hope better than I am. Every now and then, in the frenzy of mad moments, I wish he was here with me, even though I know he's so much safer back home. It's a good thing I'm close to knocking the last piece off of Moriarty's chessboard, because I know I couldn't possibly last for much longer. I can't wait to finally start planning my return, and then, to finally see John again, to tell him how sorry I am for leaving him, and especially for leaving him the way I did. I hope he can forgive me one day. I wonder if Molly managed to give him my little note. I couldn't write more, not yet, but I know John is clever enough to see behind the disguise of those simple words. My mobile chirps softly from halfway underneath the bed. I fish it out, and take a look at the message:

_"He has your note. He believes in you._

_Xo Molly"_


End file.
